


First Move

by wynnebat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, POV Sirius Black, Sirius Black Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-15
Updated: 2019-11-15
Packaged: 2021-01-31 01:48:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21438193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wynnebat/pseuds/wynnebat
Summary: Rusty doesn't even begin to describe Sirius' skills after Azkaban. His fighting skills, his memory of spells, his body, it's all a fucking mess. But some things stick around, lodged too firmly in the recesses of his memory to fade away entirely. The muscle memory of holding a wand in his hand, the taste of firewhiskey as it flows down his throat.And what it looks like when someone wants him.
Relationships: Sirius Black/Harry Potter
Comments: 17
Kudos: 470
Collections: Mind The Age Gap Flash Fic Prompt Meme





	First Move

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [agegapflashficpromptmeme](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/agegapflashficpromptmeme) collection. 

Rusty doesn't even begin to describe Sirius' skills after Azkaban. His fighting skills, his memory of spells, his body, it's all a fucking mess. But some things stick around, lodged too firmly in the recesses of his memory to fade away entirely. The muscle memory of holding a wand in his hand, the taste of firewhiskey as it flows down his throat.

And what it looks like when someone wants him.

Sirius is used to being wanted. Maybe not by family and maybe not recently, not with the way he looks after Azkaban, but he remembers long, lazy nights at Hogwarts. Back then, he'd fucked around more than he'd studied, and he'd been with anyone who was interested in him.

His memory may be shot, but he knows the way someone looks when they're admiring him.

Sirius takes a step back and puts Molly's casserole between himself and Harry. They're in the kitchen, setting the table for dinner while the Order bustles around Grimmauld Place. Harry's growing up. Sirius has barely noticed it, with the war brewing around them. He's old enough to make some mistakes. There's a lot that you can say about Sirius, but if there's one thing that he'll lay claim to, is that he's trying to be the best godfather he can be.

He hands Harry the casserole. "Help me with this, would you?"

"Too heavy for you?" Harry jokes. At least he doesn't look disappointed, and some of the interest has gone from his eyes.

Sirius hopes it was only a passing thing. He can't bring himself to put a value on which he cares about more: Harry's love or honoring the memory of Harry's father. He'd rather not choose. "Much too heavy."

And with that, it's gone and done with. Sirius gives it a passing thought later as he searches for a bottle. By morning, he convinces himself that it was only a figment of his imagination, something crossed in the wires of his brain. A decade in Azkaban must have knocked something out of place. All he had to do was do some maintenance. And to never, ever think about that look in Harry's green eyes again.

The next time it happens, it's cold and wet, and Perkins' tent has a persistent leak. Ron and Hermione have vanished to their own part of the tent while Sirius wages war on the leak.

Harry comes to help.

Harry doesn't come to _help_, as Sirius finds only moments later.

"Wandless wizards aren't invited to this party," Sirius tells him, conjuring a chair to get closer to the leak. Also, conveniently away from Harry and that look in his eyes, and those words just barely kept behind his lips. He doesn't want to hear what Harry will say. "This leak isn't going to fix itself."

"You should come to bed," Harry offers instead, like sugar wouldn't melt in his mouth. "It's late, Sirius. The leak will be there tomorrow."

"That's what I'm worried about," Sirius replies, dryly. Water drips into his hair. He doesn't move. "Good night, Harry."

Harry huffs, shaking his head. "Night."

Sirius has no idea what Harry has to be disgruntled about. It's Sirius who has all the claim to the emotion, having to avoid advances from his godson. His over-age, handsome godson, who's looking for comfort during the seemingly never-ending war. For a moment, Sirius entertains the thought that perhaps it is more dutiful to give in instead, and to comfort his godson in the few ways he knows how to do. But only for a moment. He's been building his trust in himself and his memories again, drawing a line between Azkaban and the present. No need to ruin it all by giving into a selfish impulse. And it _is _selfish. That's the problem: that he can no longer claim to be unaffected, that he couldn't give Harry that comfort in a selfless fashion.

At his core, he's always been a bit selfish, and a lot stupid.

He doesn't go to bed for another hour. Sirius waits until he can hear Harry's soft snores, then carefully treads to his bunk. Harry's much less demanding when he's asleep. Sirius pulls the fallen covers up over Harry, settling them around him and resisting the urge to kiss his forehead. It's a slippery slope.

His own bed is chilly and the rain is too loud against the walls of the tent.

After a while, he falls asleep.

There is no specific next time. Not anything that he can point to, nor any advances that he can escape. There's only the glances that become more frequent, the appreciation of Sirius' leather jacket, the dinners and the breakfasts and the life they're building together. Harry moves into Grimmauld Place after the war and Sirius can't seem to find the words to ask when he plans to move out.

He knows the answer, of course.

It's in the way Harry makes plans for the future, with Sirius in each and every one, and it's in the way he hasn't dated since his short-lived relationship with Ginny. It's in the way Sirius hasn't dated much, either. Not seriously, not in any way that matters. He can blame it on so many things, but in his heart he knows the reason.

Harry doesn't make another move, which in itself is a move: he's swinging the quaffle in Sirius' direction, and the more time passes, the less it feels like it's about to grow teeth and go for his throat.

Eventually, Sirius gives in. He doesn't have far to go. Harry's only on the other end of the couch, reading the sports section of the Prophet. He's been talking about joining a quodpot league that some Americans have started up, though it's likely that it will be seen as a grave betrayal to the sport of quidditch.

It's easy enough to lean in, to press a kiss to his lips, to enjoy the haste with which Harry drops the paper like it's on fire in favor of grasping at Sirius' shirt.

"You just wanted to be the one to kiss me first," Harry accuses him, much later, when there's room for words.

Sirius huffs a laugh. "I like making the first move."

Harry doesn't call him out on the fact that he could have made his move years ago. Instead, he kisses him again, and again, as if to make up for lost time. Sirius doesn't have any complaints.


End file.
